


Connoisseurs

by Argyle



Category: Dead Like Me
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-23
Updated: 2007-01-23
Packaged: 2018-01-02 05:16:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1052941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherein a couple of stragglers finish their breakfasts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Connoisseurs

Daisy spun a teaspoon round her cup, smiling at the sight of the miniature vortex in which the blackness of the coffee merged with the whiteness of the milk. It was almost calming: here and there slender swirls were blown asunder and sucked down into the murky depths.  
  
Down, down, down.  
  
She took a sip, wrinkled her nose, and then glanced up at Mason. “I beg your pardon?”  
  
“I didn’t say anything.” Mason munched down his last soggy bit of waffle. He had a lopsided way of chewing, as though determined to save the strength in one side of his mouth, and he was more likely to wipe his hands on his trousers rather than reach for a fresh napkin. It set Daisy’s teeth on edge.  
  
But she only said, “I know a guy who knows a guy who’s done wonders for your sort.”  
  
“My sort?”  
  
Daisy narrowed her eyes. “Scruffy.”  
  
“I’m not scruffy.”  
  
“He’s been on television. You know: clothes, hair, attitude. The whole bit.”  
  
“I don’t need a makeover,” said Mason, leaning forward, “and I _don’t_ understand how seeing something on the telly automatically validates its existence. It’s like, here’s a machine that will chop, slice, dice, and probably cut off your hand, and then it’s nothing but, ‘Hello, operator, give me one of _those_.’”  
  
“You have maple syrup on your shirt.”  
  
Mason blinked. Then he stared down his front, where yes, a long glob of syrup stretched across the ballooning text. Without another word, and without meeting Daisy’s eye, he pushed himself out from the booth and shuffled off the men’s room.  
  
“Ask for a piece of ice,” Daisy called after him. “It’ll cut through the stickiness.”  
  
The door swung closed behind him.  
  
“Or maybe that’s just chewing gum.”  
  
For a moment, she drummed her fingertips on the tabletop. Then she took another sip of her coffee, and, realizing that it was still too bitter, retrieved a slim glass bottle from her purse. Gently, gently, she poured out a thimbleful.  
  
“What’s that?” Mason’s voice came from behind her, and then he followed it, leaning over the back of the booth with a raised eyebrow. There was a damp splotch down the center of his shirt, and his usual unwashed musk was clouded by the distinct tang of floral soap. “Mm. Smells like oranges.”  
  
“Peaches,” Daisy corrected, and began to tuck the bottle away. “And it’s nothing.”  
  
“Nothing, eh? Then I suppose you wouldn’t mind if I had a look.”  
  
“Don’t you have something to be doing?”  
  
“Oh,” Mason said, and checked the bare spot on his wrist where a watch would be. “Not for another three hours, give or take.” He slid onto the seat beside her. “Well?”  
  
Daisy took a deep breath.  
  
Mason batted his lashes.  
  
“Okay, look.” She whisked the bottle back out again, briefly held it up, and then said, “Melinda’s Old Original. The firm that makes it has been in operation for over ninety years. It’s the best in the world.”  
  
“Peach schnapps? You were afraid to show me _peach schnapps_?”  
  
“I wasn’t afraid, Mason. That’s just silly. But if I had offered you some, you’d have enjoyed it so much that you would have just _had_ to tell your friends, and then they would have told _their_ friends, and we can’t have that. It isn’t easy to come by.”  
  
“May I see the bottle?”  
  
She showed it to him. If she were at all honest with herself, she would have had to admit that Melinda’s Old Original had become something of a point of honor to her. Even the label suggested a more genteel era: in tones of sepia and indigo, here and there was an etching of the old Savannah distillery. All one had to do was imagine it, and then... And then one was there, or nearly.  
  
“Seen enough?”  
  
“Come on.” Mason gave his most winning smile and held out a hand which, Daisy couldn’t help but notice, shook ever so slightly. “Give us a taste.”  
  
Daisy pursed her lips. “A _taste_ , then. That’s all you’ll need. And be quick about it.”  
  
“Quick is my middle name.”  
  
“How quaint! I halfway expected it to be Roderick or, I don’t know, _Willoughby_ or something equally embarrassing.”  
  
“You don’t know the half of it.” Mason’s smile widened. He unscrewed the bottle, and then, after taking a none-too-knowing sniff, threw back an eighth. “Hmm,” he said, sloshing the amber liqueur back and forth between his cheeks. And then, “Umph.”  
  
“You know, Tyrone Power once bought me a peach cocktail. It was at a nightclub in Monaco. They didn’t have Melinda’s, so I had to settle for the local brand. Anyway, it was the _effort_ that counted.” Daisy paused, making a show of savoring the memory. “The fountains were playing beneath the palms in the grand court, and the lights hit the water just so...”  
  
By now Mason had turned quite red. There was a thin sheen of sweat on his brow, and tears dampened the corners of his eyes. “What,” he coughed, “was _that_?”  
  
“I told you: it only takes a taste, and then--” she snapped her fingers “--poof! Au revoir.”  
  
“Are you trying to poison me?”  
  
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”  
  
Mason set the bottle down on the table and used his shirtsleeve to wipe his face. “Fucking hell,” he mumbled. “’S worse than arsenic.”  
  
“It’s made with the _finest_ Georgia peaches. Do you know what that means?”  
  
Mason nodded. “No.”  
  
“It means it takes a certain temperament to appreciate it,” said Daisy. “A connoisseur, one might say.”  
  
“And one might say it’s the _worst_ rotgut concoction I’ve ever tasted.”  
  
“Are _you_ saying that?”  
  
“I just did.” Mason cleared his throat. “It’s the worst _fucking_ rotgut I’ve ever had. There. I said again for the benefit of the people in the cheap seats.”  
  
“Fine. Give it back.”  
  
Mason held up a protective hand. “I didn’t say I was finished,” he drawled, and raised the bottle back to his mouth. “But when I start to go blind, as my enabler you’ll be morally obligated to help me find my way around. We’ll get you a nice diamond collar.”  
  
In retrospect, Daisy knew her coffee cup might have been a more effective projectile had she held it at something closer to a forty-five degree angle. But even at twenty or fifteen, it was enough to sufficiently soak Mason’s trousers. He was still smiling at her, though it did at least keep him from following.  
  
The taste of peaches yet on her tongue, she stepped out into the open air and remembered not Monaco, but Savannah in July. It was a world of sepia and indigo.


End file.
